


Things Will Get Better

by CrazyMarvelSuperfamily



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter Parker, Mental Health Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Natasha Romanov, Self-Harm, spider mom - Freeform, spider son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyMarvelSuperfamily/pseuds/CrazyMarvelSuperfamily
Summary: Peter had hidden things away for so long - he just didn't want May or Tony to find out





	Things Will Get Better

**Author's Note:**

> WOW it has been a longgggg time since I've written anything and Im sorry about that... i post way more regularly on my tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/crazymarvelsuperfamily so if you want more trash then go look there. there is some pretty graphic details of self harm here, so please don't read this if you may get triggered. I have been there and I know it isn't fun at all. Do DM me on my tumblr. leave any prompts you want, but know that I have exams atm so probs wont commit to anything until the summer. That said, I've really missed writing and its good to be back :)

Peter thought he was being pretty subtle. It was bitter in New York, so always wearing long sleeves or a jumper all the time was hardly noticeable – everyone knew that he felt the cold really bad anyways; after all spiders can’t thermoregulate. So, Peter was sure he could get away with no one seeing them. As for when he was invited swimming – it was easy to make up an excuse, he _did_ have lots of school work to keep up with and he _was_ spending an awful lot of time out on patrol. He had also got worryingly good at hiding injuries, he had an insanely high pain tolerance, so he didn’t even flinch when someone grabbed at his arm. And, as for blood stains, he only tended to wear darker clothes any way – and with a couple of YouTube videos, vinegar and baking soda, they were easy to get rid of.

So, he didn’t really get why he was still so paranoid. Every time someone approached him, adrenaline would kick in hard; he would try to spend as much time away from the Compound, so FRIDAY wouldn’t be able uncover him; he had even bought a first aid kit with cash, instead of just putting it onto the card Tony gave him, so it wouldn’t be traceable.

All this was just to make sure that neither May nor Tony would find out. He cared about both of them far too much. And they already had so many things on their minds – the last thing that they needed was to worry about Peter in a different aspect. Besides, if either of them knew, they could take Spiderman away from him. And he _needed_ Spiderman. It kept him busy and was the only thing that could motivate him in the slightest anymore. So, he just kept hiding.

Eventually, he fell into this kind of routine, skip breakfast, go to school, skip lunch, go home, pretend to do some school work, skip dinner, go out on patrol, go home, pretend to sleep, repeat. May’s hours over the winter period were always hectic – he hardly saw her anymore. He couldn’t help but be glad. He loved her more than any words could ever express, but he struggled with her permenantly breathing down his neck; without her watching over his every move, it was far easier for Peter to just get on with things and get things done.

And Tony was always busy too – sure, he would always make time for Peter if he ever wanted to talk, but if they went for days without talking, he would never be too concerned.

This routine of Peter’s just continued. He somehow managed to slip under everyone’s radar: if May asked where he was, he would just say he was with Tony and vice versa. Weeks had passed since this whole thing stated.

Peter wasn’t sure how or why “this thing started” when it started, it just did. He supposed it was the combination of not fitting in with either the Avengers or his peers, mixed with the pressures of juggling school and patrol, not to mention the numerous physical and mental wounds he’s suffered in battles, facing some of the Universes greatest dangers. He felt so outcast and alone, like he was back in the soul world, drifting through the void, unreachable.

It had only been 6 months since the two halves of the Universe had been reunited, but the world was recovering fast: the economy was climbing, businesses had been re-opened, and people were getting over their grief and loss. As far as Peter knew, it was only he and Strange that remembered the Soul World at all – and it was only him that could remember every second of the eight months he was stuck there for. Time was frozen like ice – everything was so deathly silent and still, but Peter felt a shrill scream resonate through his head. He neither ate, nor slept, nor breathed for the whole time. His heart didn’t beat. He couldn’t move at all – he felt nothing. Yet he felt everything. He couldn’t think of a worse torture than the limbo he had been stuck in.

And no one understood what he went through. They couldn’t. Even now, six months on, Peter could still vividly remember the nothingness. Cutting himself was the only way that he could forget it: the pain reminded him he was a real person again.

So cut himself he did. Hundreds of times across his pasty pale forearms. With a tiny broken pencil sharpener blade, he ploughed across the flesh and broke it. And the sting would comfort him. And he would watch as trails of blood rolled down over his wrists and pool in his hands, then drip and splatter onto his bed sheets or the bathroom floor. And from behind the glassy wall of tears, he would watch as his skin would slowly bind itself back together, before he’d do it all over again.

His body worked fast. Too fast for his liking in some ways. Cuts never stuck around for long at all, and hardly left any scars. But he didn’t think it possible for any wounds to get infected, which he guessed was a good thing. Nether the less, he was careful. He was always very careful.

That was, except for when he was with Tash.

 Peter had always had a good relationship with Natasha – she was cold and hard on the outside, but underneath, she was one of the kindest and loveliest people that Peter had ever met. She was always soft and gentle with Peter (with the exception of training – that shit _hurt_ ) which meant Peter often let his guard down a little with her.

Occasionally, if she “happened to be passing”, Natasha would pick Peter up from school. It had been raining so heavily that the side walk had flooded, and Peter only had a slightly moth-eaten hoodie with him, so he couldn’t help but be thankful to see an Audi pulled up right outside the school. He slid into the front passenger seat and slung his rucksack into the boot. Natasha pulled his sodden hood of and ruffled his damp curls.

“Hey kid,” she smiled warmly at him.

“Hi Tasha,” Peter responded, trying smile in response. But his throat was dry, and the words came out croaky and monotonous.

“How was school?” She prompted, evidently ignoring the lack of his usual excitement.

“Alright, I guess.” _Dang it, Peter._ “Same old. I passed my Spanish test from Tuesday.”

“Hey! Well done on that.” Natasha beamed. Peter knew she could sense how down he was. “How about a celebratory hot chocolate and waffles? You look like you could do with a pick-me-up?”

“Oh, I’m alright – I’m not really that hungry.” Peter shrugged. It had been a few days since he had eaten anything at all. The thought of waffles just made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Don’t lie to me – I have met you. You normally eat more than a horse. We are going to get waffles.”

“If you say so.” Peter tried to smile again. He let a weak laugh escape, but it was pitiful.

The car journey to the Waffle House was unnervingly quiet. Natasha tried to make conversation at first, but after a few questions with little response, she just turned the radio up a little. The slightly static music was still completely overpowered by the relentless drive of rain that hammered onto the car roof and windscreen. Peter scrolled briefly through his twitter account, but none of the messages on the screen made it to his brain. They were all scrambled up and distant, just like the radio.

The parking lot was pretty full – it took Tasha two drives around in order to find a free space. The diner was equally packed, with them taking the last booth in the corner by the window. Natasha ordered two chocolate milkshakes and supreme chocolate waffles, but Peter still said hardly anything. Instead, he just absent-mindedly stirred his milkshake until the paper straw decayed to a sodden mess. Tasha was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words or process them into the story she was telling him.

His stomach turned painfully when the food was set down in front of him. Golden brown waffles laden with syrup and ice cream and sprinkles and strawberries. This should have been his dream come true. Instead, it felt much more like a nightmare.

“Go ahead and eat Peter… Are you okay?” He heard the Black Widow ask him.

Peter shook his head a little, “Sorry, day dreaming.” He muttered and picked up the fork that was set before him. He cut a small corner off and tentatively took a bite. The sugary sweetness sent his senses into overdrive, his eyes almost watered at the shock of the taste. All of a sudden, the hunger of not eating in days kicked in. He shovelled mouthful after mouthful into his mouth, barely hesitating to chew. He felt sick.

His stomach did yet another somersault. This time, it was full. Then, yet again it wasn’t. The waffle came straight back up, hot acid and undigested food dripped from down his hoodie. Peter froze up for a moment in shock. By the time he had processed what had happened, Natasha was already next to him, stroking his hair, reassuring him. Her words were still distant and blurred. She started to tug at the hem of his jumper, helping him to carefully remove it. Peter was too dazed to object, he just wanted the foul thing off. He raised his arms.

Wait.

His arms.

Oh no. She was going to see. She was going to see. _Nonononononono._ Peter had kept those cuts hidden for so long. But before he could do anything, the jumper was off, his bare arms exposed, and raw, fleshy red lines could be seen by the world.

Natasha said nothing. She didn’t even look surprised. Not even in the slightest. Instead, she just helped him out from the booth and guided him to the car. She was ever so gentle and didn’t touch a single one of his cuts.

The drive back to the compound was near silent. Peter felt frozen to his seat, he did nothing but listen to the buzz and whir of the engine. It wasn’t comforting at all. He felt his eyes glazing over, then glassy tears rolled down his cheeks. He did nothing to stop them, he let them slide off his face and land with a soft pat onto his disgusting jeans.

Even after the car had been parked in the garage back at the compound. The pair just sat in silence for a while. Peter moved to leave, he muttered something about being in need of a shower.

“Wait.” Natasha said – her voice soft, barely above a whisper, but the authority in her voice stopped Peter dead in his tracks. They sat for another minute or so before she got up to move. “Come with me.” She commanded.

She led him into the elevator and took him to her personal apartment. Peter hadn’t seen this area of the compound before. It was elegant and pristine, with white walls and white floor boards – the only colour in her hallway and living room was found in a brass statue – it was obscure, Peter couldn’t tell what it was.

She kept leading him – straight through her living room, through her bedroom and straight into the bathroom. Without any words, she helped him to peel off his sticky clothes, his t-shirt stained with blood and his jeans sodden with vomit. Peter just sat in silence on the edge of the bath, barely flinching as Natasha wiped his torso and arms down with anti-bacterial. She passed him a plain white bathrobe which he slipped on. The material was soft and fluffy, and it smelt of Natasha’s perfume, and it hugged him gently - fitting him almost perfectly. It was comforting.

“Come.” And he followed. They sat down on the large grey sofa that took over the corner of her living room. She turned on the TV and let Star Wars play quietly in the background – Peter felt safer. The silence held between them remained, and over the next hour became more and more comfortable to Peter. He felt himself starting to trust Natasha, and subconsciously, he opened up to her. Tears once again fell from his eyes. Natasha still said nothing, but she held him, pulling his head to her chest. She carded through his hair with one hand, and with the other drew circles with her finger on his back. He clung to her shoulders and sobbed.

To Peter, it felt like an eternity before he calmed down. But Natasha didn’t let go of him once, she just stayed with him, letting him cry. When he pulled away, for the first time that day he made eye contact with her. Her usually impeccable eyeliner was smudged, and like his, she had raw red rings around her eyes.

“Tasha?” Peter asked uncertainly, the black widow, certified badass and normally a total poker face was crying in front of him.

“I’m sorry Peter. I just wish it wasn’t you that had to go through this. I know that it seems lame for me to be crying, its just, you’ve faced so much, and it shouldn’t have been you. You’re sixteen – the biggest worry in your life should be SATs. Instead, you are the single person alive who has felt the worst torture in the world. I would give anything to take that pain from you.” She whispered. Peter hugged her again tightly.

“I’m sorry Tasha.” Peter mumbled into her shoulder.

“No. Don’t be. You are always welcome to be here, you can tell me anything, and I will always make time for you. No apologies or other courtesies required at all.” She looked him sternly in the eye – he knew she was serious.

“Can you please promise me something?”, Peter asked tentatively, Natasha nodded in reply, “please don’t tell Tony or May. It’s just that they have so much on and they’re so busy and-”

“My lips are sealed.” She cut him off. “But I do think that we should get you some help. Okay, I won’t tell anyone, as long as you go and see a therapist. You don’t need to tell them everything, you don’t need to tell them anything, but trust me, it will help. We can find person whose right for you – it doesn’t matter how many sessions it takes, or people you have to see. But trust me, things will get better.”

She held him tightly once again, and once again he cried into her shoulder.

“things will get better, I promise.”


End file.
